


Deviation

by thesilverarrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/thesilverarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John normally does quite well not thinking about seeing his infuriating roommate naked.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deviation

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers only through 2.01 "A Scandal in Belgravia"

"I can hear you thinking," Sherlock says, startling him out of his late night television stupor.

Sherlock is staring out the window onto the dark street, slowly working his way through a scotch highball. He's been in a mood all day, one that's been as effectively gloomy as a raincloud over their sparkling blue sky, so rare in January. He was standing there as the sun went down, and he stood there throughout the football match. 

It might've been worse, though. He might've been playing the violin. Not that John could be any more exhaustedly insomniac than he is now.

John snaps, "You cannot."

"You pick at your cuticles when you're puzzling over something." Sherlock's still facing the window, as if to prove he's not only observant but can also read minds.

John honestly wouldn't be surprised if he could.

"Whatever," John says. 

Sherlock's not wrong about John's ticks, of course, but John is not without his own powers of observation, even with a closed-off person like Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock is enough a creature of habit that he can be easy to predict in certain contexts. Tonight, he's had enough scotch that his voice is a bit rougher and deeper than normal. A three-patch problem is a frequent occurrence, and it usually has to do with a serious case, but a scotch whiskey problem is rarer, a different kind of serious. His cases have been more personal lately. John can see it in his eyes. Mycroft. Moriarty.

The Woman.

John has never seen him so much as tipsy, unless tipsy looks a lot like his forgetting to be an emotionally constipated android. However, like everyone else on the planet, Sherlock's tongue is a bit loosened up with alcohol. Sometimes that means he's even more of an asshole than usual, but sometimes it means he simply stops hiding his emotions. As Sherlock rarely does anything without a purpose, John has come to realize that if Sherlock lets himself get a little pissed, it's because he thinks it's the proper strategy. That doesn't mean John knows what tactics to use in response.

Tonight, he decides to goad. Just a bit.

"You're not thinking about _her_ are you?"

He had hoped for a spark of annoyance, but what he gets is nonchalance: "Who?"

"You know who."

"No, John, I'm not."

"You know, I still haven't figured out how you knew her measurements?"

Finally, Sherlock turns around. Depositing his mostly empty glass on the table, he crosses his arms and says, "I saw her naked."

"I know that," John replies, but Sherlock is still looking at him blankly, so he adds, "You do realize that's weird…"

"It's weird to see a woman naked?"

"It's weird to take a woman's measurements on sight. It's weird that you even _can_."

"I was once apprenticed to a tailor."

"Really."

"No," he says with a sigh of aggravation. 

Sherlock drops himself on the couch, draping over it ungracefully but still managing to look more sophisticated than John has in his whole life, including when he wore a tux to be an old school chum's best man. Whether he's been a tailor or not, Sherlock's certainly well acquainted with one.

Sherlock says, "I take the measure of things when I observe them. It's a useful force of habit."

"Things?"

"Temperature. Distance. Speed. Size." A dangerous smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "For example," he says, "when flaccid, your—"

"No," John squawks. "What?" He flails his arms a bit. "No. When did you…?"

He shrugs. "You're my roommate."

"That's…" 

But he has no words for what that is, really. Aside from his irritation at the usual Holmes family inability or sheer unwillingness to recognize the bounds of propriety, he's wildly curious when it would've even been possible for Sherlock to see him naked at all, much less without his knowing it.

"I assure you," Sherlock's saying, with a wave of his hand, "you're well within the standard deviation of average."

Now, he feels his face heat. And his ears. Fuck. A voice thunders through his mind: _Sherlock has seen you naked. Sherlock has been concertedly looking at your…_.

John murmurs, "I cannot believe we're having this conversation."

"You initiated such talk."

"No, _you_ made me tell you—"

"Yes, I _made_ you," he says with a snort.

John rubs his hands over his face, then he says, "Look, breasts, I understand. I can guess cup size—"

"Cannot."

"I hate to tell you, but it doesn't take a genius to—"

"Molly Hooper."

John scans his memory, and he estimates she's about the same size as his last girlfriend. "I'd say a B. 36 B."

"Close. 34."

"Really?" Sherlock just glares at him. "Okay. But the rest of it…"

Now, Sherlock looks bored again. "I can tell you in metric, too."

"Of course you can."

"And it's not just abstract calculation, if that's what you're thinking. All my measuring, I mean. It's also interpretation, probability." Without even a smirk this time, he says, "For instance, I can predict with reasonable accuracy the length to which you grow when you're aroused."

He holds up his hand, as though there were any real way to shut the man up when he doesn't want to. "Seriously."

"You're average in girth, but you're longer than I am, if it makes you feel better."

"No, not— Really?"

"Which is not to say I'm not also within the standard deviation of average. But, yes."

It's a ludicrous thought, really. In no possible way is Sherlock average. For good or ill, he's unlike anyone else John's ever known. 

Still reclining, Sherlock says, "You're thinking again."

"I do make an effort from time to time."

"Surely you're not still thinking about my cock."

John almost chokes on a swallow of beer. At that, Sherlock finally sits up. 

"Surely you _have_ heard the word."

"Yes, but…"

" _Penis_ is a grammar school term."

"Whereas you choose one from pornography."

"I suppose it's really no better. Not surprising, given that our equipment is patently ridiculous."

"You're patently ridiculous."

"And you keep looking at my lap."

"I do not."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," he mutters, suddenly standing up. "If you're done with your interrogation, I'm going to take a shower."

When he's nearly out of the room, he stops and says, without turning around: 

"If you're really so curious, you are welcome to come find me when I've undressed and make some sort of confirmation."

John really has no retort for that. He snorts, then he turns back to the telly, taking deep breaths and willing his face to shift from crimson back to his normal shade of pale. Because he honestly wasn't thinking about Sherlock's _cock_. 

At least he hadn't been.

*

John normally does quite well not thinking about seeing his infuriating roommate naked. Sherlock's so circumspect about revealing himself to others, showing himself vulnerable, that John almost can't imagine there's a naked there, underneath his clothes. 

Now that's he's thinking about it – and he's most definitely thinking about it – reality intrudes. He's reminded of the several times he's encountered real proof that there is indeed a skinny, pale, but lovely body under Sherlock's tailored suits. He's even put his hands on it. Thankfully, there's always been real brotherly concern as well as a doctor's objectivity there between his fingers and Sherlock's skin, his muscles, his bones. 

He tells himself that this kind of medical detachment is why he's standing at the bathroom door, listing to the sound of water, feeling the damp air curling under the door. Though Sherlock often forgets the fact, John, too, is a scientist. He's certainly not here because he's been picturing Sherlock in the act of stripping off his clothes. (Methodical, he would be. Jacket shrugged off and laid across the back of the chair. Tie carefully unknotted and draped over the jacket. Cuff links out and cuffs undone. Buttons managed, from adam's apple to navel. Shirt peeled off and dropped into the pile of clothes for the cleaners. Belt unbuckled and off. Trousers button, zipper…)

Before he can talk himself out of it, he opens the bathroom door and steps inside.

Sherlock calls out over the rush of the water: "Close the door."

The room is filled with a decadent amount of steam and it smells like Sherlock's sandalwood soap. There are no clothes on the floor, which is unsurprising. He would've taken them off in his room. What _is_ surprising? There's no robe hanging from the back of the door, either.

"You know, John, I'm not coming out of the shower prematurely just so you can tweak your masculinity."

"I can wait until you're done."

"Yes. You could. But you came now."

"I did," he says, and his heart kicks into double time. "In the interest of science."

"Of course."

What in the world is he doing here, really? There is only one non-medical reason to take a peek at another man's dick. At least there is for normal people. John can admit why he's here, but Sherlock… 

In all likelihood the man is as oblivious about this kind of social rule as he is most of the rest. Of course, there's an alternative, and it would certainly explain the alcohol and his apparent streaking through the flat: maybe Sherlock is simply colossally clumsy at seduction. 

Just as John opens his mouth to ask the question, there's a soft clunk as Sherlock's forehead comes to rest against the wall. Sherlock pulls the curtain back just enough to make his voice, now gone lower, softer, be heard over the sound of the water:

"John, if you've ever entertained the notion of being naked with me and doing the things that people do when they're naked, this would be the time."

And that settles that, apparently.

John is a lot of things, but stupid is not actually one of them, despite the looks Sherlock frequently gives him at crime scenes. He quickly shucks his jumper and t-shirt, and then, bracing a hand on the counter, he pulls off his socks. His trousers drop easily to the floor, but he has to do bit of a dance to get them off around his feet, and by then the wild throbbing of his heart actually hurts a bit. He takes a deep breath like he sometimes did during the shelling at Marja, willing himself to at least appear calm.

For a second, he just stands there, staring down at himself, past innumerable scars and a slightly pudgy belly to his blue plaid boxers, and he realizes he's holding his breath. His heart beats hard against his ribs. 

"I'm sure I made that sound like an invitation," Sherlock says. "If we're to be precise, it was more of a request."

Once again, John can't move. He still can't quite believe what's happening. He says, "So _you've_ , um, entertained notions, then?"

Sherlock just replies in an irritated bark, "It would be good if you could come be naked with me before the hot water is entirely gone."

The man's caveman technique notwithstanding, John strips out of his boxers, casting them against the half-closed door before he pulls back the curtain and steps inside.

Showers were not made for two grown men. He's worried about slipping, so he's not able to really look at Sherlock until it's too late, until he's already pressing against him, front to his back, feeling his hips rest against what is undoubtedly the nicest bum in the known universe.

Water is coursing down Sherlock's front, so John is free to kiss the drops off his shoulders, a gesture intimate enough it makes his stomach flip, once he realizes what he's doing, what Sherlock is letting him do. Sherlock's head falls forward a little and his shoulders drop a bit, but he doesn't stop rinsing the soap from his chest and stomach. 

John doesn't know what to do with his hands, fidgeting there at Sherlock's lower back and slender waist. Hell, he's still not exactly sure what he's here for. Luckily, it's not long before Sherlock is rearranging their positions anyway. His body slides maddeningly against John's as he guides him into a turn, leaving John's back to the spray of extra hot water. Sherlock is now facing him – looming over him, in fact, looking down at him for all the world like he's a very interesting problem to solve. John's cock, brushing Sherlock's belly, is rock hard before he can even get his bearings.

"Do you know," Sherlock says, his finger tracing John's collar bone, "I've never shared a shower with anyone before."

"Did you really invite me in here to have some sort of sociological dialogue about mating habits or—"

Without further ado, Sherlock is kissing him. His long fingers brace the sides of John's neck, and they dig in a bit at the nape as John opens up, lets Sherlock pull him in deeper and have his way. 

Really, it's a very good way.

Sherlock kisses the way John might have expected him to, but that would imply he's ever thought it could be possible, which he most definitely hadn't. There's something demanding about it, fierce and taking, but underneath that is a deliberate solicitude. Even as he bites at John's lower lip, he's flicking out his tongue, coaxing, testing, in all likelihood collecting data. 

He's also getting hard, but he's doing nothing whatsoever about that. With no patience and less finesse, then, John brings their hips flush together, and the effect on Sherlock is amazing. He shudders a bit and gasps out of the kiss to rest their foreheads together, but his hands still clutch the sides of John's neck. He's almost imperceptibly panting.

Then, once his breathing evens out again, he says:

"This is incredibly stupid" — with the kind of sigh he typically reserves for the metropolitan police.

John's whole body goes rigid. Of course it is. Of course this is—

"I meant," Sherlock whispers against his cheek, "we will undoubtedly slip and fall if we stay in here and attempt to do what I think we're going to attempt to do."

"Oh," John replies. He ducks his head and presses a soft kiss to the side of Sherlock's neck. There's a hint of stubble there, right at his throat, begging to be sucked and licked and—

"Because honestly," Sherlock murmurs, "I feel like you might be a bit more forceful with me if I can get you on sure footing."

At that, John ungracefully pulls his face down to kiss him hard on the mouth. He genuinely feels like he could devour him, all of him. These cramped quarters are not enough.

"Or no footing," John says, already pulling back the curtain.

Sherlock grins and reaches for the taps.

*

After a miraculously brief period of negotiation, Sherlock allows himself to be unceremoniously ushered out of the bathroom still dripping wet, but only if they'll be rolling around on and messing up John's bedclothes.

A naked, wet Sherlock in his bed? John can certainly live with the consequences to his sheets and pillows. 

By the time John gets his bedroom door closed and locked behind them, Sherlock has propped himself up against the headboard, pale limbs a bit akimbo, and one hand is stroking his cock, almost absentmindedly. No, actually it seems like he's doing it less for his own benefit than for John's. 

John feels his skin flush, and he steps forward, gripping a hand around Sherlock's ankle, to ground himself. 

"Wow," he mutters, swallowing against a dry throat. "God, you're…"

"Still unclothed. Yes."

"No, you insufferable git, I was going to say beautiful."

Sherlock's expression doesn't change, but he lets his gaze drift up over John's shoulder.

John sighs and says, "I'm not surprised you hate that, but you don't even care, do you?"

"About what?"

"That you're bleeding gorgeous."

Now Sherlock's hand stops. He's thinking – clearly not about his answer, but about how to phrase it. 

"It is occasionally helpful in my line of work, and I can't help but observe that. So, yes, I do realize and appreciate that a sizeable proportion of people I meet find me attractive to some extent. Others, to a greater extent." With a small, intimate smile, he says, "You, for instance. What I didn't know was that _you_ knew. Or that you were willing to do something about that fact."

John ducks his head. "I didn't—"

"John," he says sharply enough that John's eyes snap up and meet his. They are so very blue now. "I normally find your need to talk through everything rather endearing if occasionally more tedious than productive, but just now, I'd much rather like to show you how much I appreciate _your_ physical form. Without clothing, you are even more distracting than usual."

Trapped, lost in Sherlock's gaze, it takes him a beat to get moving again.

"Distracting?" he asks as he climbs onto the bed and crawls up over the long, lean body laid out in front of him. 

Sherlock slides his arms around John's waist to squeeze his ass and pull him down tight against him. As he ruts into place, he says, "That ginger constable who refers to me as The Sociobot? He apparently doesn't know the difference between prioritizing basic human needs and actually _having_ them."

John kisses his shoulder, then his right pectoral, and says against his skin, "So, I'm on your priority list?"

"Right now, I'd say you're very near the top."

"From you, I'll take that as a compliment."

"Oh, you want idle flattery?" he snaps, actually rolling his eyes. "Okay. That experiment I ruined last Thursday? I lost track of time because I was watching you watch football on the telly."

"No, you weren't. You were—"

"—pretending to read a text on theoretical physics that I've read several times before, thank you for noticing." 

Suddenly, Sherlock sort of growls, rolling them over until he's on top of John, crouching there, staring down at him. His cock, still hard and now leaking, nudges against John's, so John can't resist taking it in hand. Sherlock screws up his face the way he does when he can't do math in his head fast enough to suit himself, but his hips slip forward, thrusting his length through John's grasp.

John asks, "You were watching me?"

"You are very intense when there's football," Sherlock says just before he lets loose an inarticulate gasp. 

It's the last thing he says for a good long while. At least in English. Once, when John rubs his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, he's pretty sure Sherlock swears in French before he pulls away from John's grasp. Swiftly, he slides down John's body, kissing and biting his torso on the way down, tasting his skin from collarbone to hipbone.

His hands are like fire, following the trail set by his mouth. John can already imagine the bruises he'll have in the morning, especially a particularly vivid one on his left hip. Sherlock's wet hair slips against his skin, and the drops of water tickle like hell as they run down over his ribs. Still, he's so hard he almost can't stand it, and when Sherlock softly kisses the sensitive skin just beside his cock, John swears — loudly, and in proper Anglo-Saxon expletives.

Sherlock looks up at him with the most curious grin. John is honestly not sure whether Sherlock knows precisely what he's doing to him or whether, as usual, he's faking his way through something he doesn't quite understand. Whatever the case, he certainly gets it now. 

Sherlock murmurs, "Please note that I do not subscribe to the illogical masculine theory that one can divine one's partner's needs without guidance," then his hot, wet mouth closes over the head of John's cock, and John is absolutely lost.

Sherlock is, objectively, neither good nor bad at giving head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John's aware that this is the only man in the world who would not take the descriptor _adequate_ as an insult. Standard deviation of average, or whatever. Of course, it doesn't matter. This is Sherlock, and he _is_ taking John's subtle, inarticulate directions, and, more importantly, his beautiful mouth is stretched around John's cock. The few times John's allowed himself to fantasize about the man, he hadn't conjured up anything nearly this obscene.

It's too much, and Sherlock's much too far away.

"Come back up here," John says, stroking his hands through Sherlock's damp curls. It's just possible he's developing a bit of a _thing_ about Sherlock's hair. It’s long enough to make a very good hand hold, actually.

From between his legs, Sherlock looks at him quizzically, but he obeys. Once he's settled in against John again, he asks, "Like this, then?"

"Just like this. Yes." Gripping Sherlock by the back of the neck to pull him into a kiss, John murmurs against his lips, "I want you where I can feel you."

This time, it's Sherlock who crushes their mouths together. John returns the kiss with so much force he bites Sherlock's lip, eliciting a new sound from him, a thin, helpless moan. He's laving his tongue over the wound, feeling Sherlock squirm against him, their cocks slipping together now, when he remembers what Sherlock said before they left the shower. 

Drawing on his years of experience as a doctor and soldier, manipulating bodies often heavier than his own, he deftly reverses their positions. When he's on top again, he braces himself with the headboard and thrusts hard.

Sherlock groans, this time from his chest, and his mouth falls open as his hips quickly pick up John's slow, stuttered, jerking rhythm. He throws his arms up beside his head, leaving himself entirely under John's control. His eyes slip shut, and his body thrusts up off the bed to meet John's. His voice, though occasionally torn by a gasp, is still somehow in control.

When John is pressed in tight against him, he holds him there, and he holds his gaze, just long enough to say:

"You know, if you wanted more, I'd let you take it." 

"Fuck," John grunts, his orgasm rushing down on him. For a moment, he just uses Sherlock's body, reveling in the snap of the man's narrow waist, the perfect slide of damp, sweaty skin on skin.

"John," Sherlock whines, and that's when John lets go, coming in hot spurts against Sherlock's stomach. 

When he can properly move again, he pushes up and off him. Dragging his hand through his own slick mess just below Sherlock's navel, he wraps it around Sherlock's cock, pulling it a bit harder than is strictly necessary. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. In fact, after a moment, his body goes completely rigid and, through gritted teeth, he says, "Faster." 

Not long after John gives him what he wants, Sherlock's eyes snap open and he spills over John's hand, his body shuddering until, finally, his hips come to rest again on the mattress and his head thuds back against the pillow.

Sherlock reaches out to still his hand, but John doesn't pull away, and Sherlock seems curiously loath to remove his hand, either. For a moment, they stay just like that. John listens to his heartbeat roaring in his ears and watches the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the flutter of his dark eyelashes. 

Eventually, though, John gives in to the protest of his knees and sits back, taking his sticky hands off the man and retreating to the bathroom to clean up. When he returns with a damp towel, Sherlock is sitting up again, but he seems in no great hurry to move. Against all expectation, he appears to be completely comfortable being nude. John, on the other hand, has retrieved his boxers. Sherlock eyes them with amusement but doesn't comment.

John sits on the side of the bed while Sherlock cleans up, watching the ends of his hair still dripping on the bedclothes. Undoubtedly worth the mess. 

"I have detected a flaw in my plan," Sherlock finally says.

"Your plan?"

"Don't tell me you really don't know when you're being propositioned."

He laughs to himself, replying, "I frequently don't have the foggiest what you're up to. Why should this kind of thing be any different?"

"Yet you came to the bathroom."

"I was curious."

"Of course," he says, eyebrows raised.

"Okay, and, yeah, I made a bloody deduction."

Eyebrows still raised, Sherlock says, "Oh?"

"You didn't have your robe. And you finished your scotch. You only drink that much when you're…" 

"What?"

"Nervous. Or up to something."

"Or both." Sherlock snorts, smiling sardonically. "And not particularly interested in using my brain."

"As if it ever turns off."

"Very nearly, just then."

"I'll work on that."

He realizes what he's said a beat too late, but Sherlock doesn't seem to balk at the notion. John shouldn't be surprised. Of course this won't be a one-time occurrence: if this was an experiment, it was decidedly successful.

Sherlock lies back down, staring up at the ceiling without taking an ounce of his attention off John.

"I should've known, anyway," John says.

"About what?"

"Well, you _are_ …bigger than me."

With a frown, he says, "Only slightly, as it turns out."

"So you _hadn't_ … before?"

"Of course not. I made an educated guess and presented the most flattering value within the mean."

"You know, to the rest of us, that's not maths and probability. It's called bluffing."

"It was a safe bluff. Would you have corrected me if I were wrong?"

John just shakes his head and lies down beside him on the bed. He'd sort of like to hold his hand or maybe even just grasp his wrist or rest a palm on his chest, but he's pretty sure this is as close as Sherlock comes to cuddling. It's nice, anyway. He smells nice, and his scent's going to linger in John's bed. Sherlock is rarely this much in his personal space, and rarely this still.

"So," John says, "the flaw in your plan?"

"We just negated our shower. We'll need another."

John giggles. "I'm pretty sure that makes it a genius plan, actually."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then he grimaces, pronouncing, "I hate spunk."

"Well, I hate broccoli, but there you are."

Sherlock frowns. "Sometimes, you are incomprehensible to me."

"Good," he replies. "Then maybe you won't get bored of me."

Sherlock reflexively shakes his head, then he turns it so he can look at John, from pillow to pillow. He waits for John meet his eyes before he speaks:

"I only grow bored of boring people. Which you are not."

At that, Sherlock unceremoniously rises from the bed and ambles toward the bedroom door. Hand on the knob, he turns back and says:

"Oh, and John?"

"Mmm?"

"I guessed."

"Hmm?"

"Irene Adler's measurements. I was sure only of her cup size. For the rest, I did some of the fastest, best thinking of my life."

For a moment, a shadow passes over his face. It's not a moment John likes to remember, either, except as one of the many times Sherlock proved himself extraordinary.

John smiles and says, "Of course you did. But how?" 

Sherlock's expression lightens, and his long fingers wave away the details: "Standard dimensions of a teacup, basic proportions, a bit of trigonometry."

"Jesus."

"No, science," he says, then he slips out the door.

He has a feeling Sherlock's not returning to his brooding in the window, at least not tonight. It's no matter; John's not going back to repeats and adverts on the telly. In fact, he feels like he could sleep for days.


End file.
